Forty is an F-word, but a good one.

I had delusions of grandeur upon starting this venture. 40 posts by my 40th birthday. Write every day. Make complete sentences. Remember words.

Bah.

I am not grand, nor do I care to be. I am not "40 and still a MILF" despite my newly acquired button that says so. I do not fit into all my clothes, but I am foodie over fashionista any day. I'm not always nice, even when I try really hard. I use a LOT of F-words, and sometimes they're not nice, either.

Forty. Flab. Flop. Fail. Fragile. Some days, these words go round and round, and I feel them more intensely than others. Those are the days when the simple act of smiling uses up every bit of strength I have. The days when blessings are hidden behind barriers of grief or hopelessness; when memories are made up of bitter, painful moments. Everyone has those days, to some degree and variation.

Without the agony of loss, we cannot fully appreciate the ecstasy of gain. The trick then, is to be sure you do take full advantage of the good moments, so the pain that got you there wasn't for nothing. Use it. Make it your B. Embrace the gladness; revel in the laughter; enjoy every second of happiness.

Some days, like today, I am overwhelmed with gratitude. There are F-words for that, too.

Fierce. Funny. Friendship. Fanfare. Frothy. Fondue. Fantastic. Fortitude. Freckles. Freedom.

Today, even the worst F-words can't break the hold of happiness. So far, forty is pretty freakin fantastic. I will hold onto the laughter of this day, commit this golden energy to memory, and know it would not be this grand had I not felt so completely crummy yesterday. I will also remember this moment when the next crummy day rolls around, and maybe it won't feel quite so hopeless in the end.

Happy Birthday, Self.

Much love.




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